Song of Blue Moccasin (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

"Choices have the mighty Iroquois. First is the way of peace. Peace is the easiest. Nothing is required. But peace is too often gained by surrendering rights, land, or honor. Such peace is not The People's way-nor should it be.

  "This peace can be special. While whites fight each other, the tribes can strengthen their borders, filling the valleys with corn raisers and placing lodges on every trail. Whites, it is known, claim only empty land. So, halted will be the whites. No longer will Iroquois land be threatened.

  "This is an old plan. It was offered by Long Knife to Pontiac of the Ottawa. The wise Late Star promised its success before some at this fire were born.

  "But old leaders and young warriors ignored the wise council, and the fighters of Pontiac were shattered in battle. Villages were destroyed. Only death and starvation rewarded the brave warriors of that time.

  "This is another time, and we speak now of the powerful Iroquois, unbeaten in war for two hundred and fifty summers.

  "The Iroquois could send among the war parties more than three thousand warriors. In battle, each Iroquois fighter could defeat a hand of white farmers. No one doubts this. Mighty in war can be the Iroquois people."

  Before continuing, Blue appeared to gaze at his six red stones surrounded by white chips as though judging the red stones' chances.

  "The Iroquois could fight with the whites who revolt against their distant king. Or, The People could choose to stand beside the English, who believe their king to be ruler of everyone on this land.

  "Finally, the Six Nations may choose different directions. Some may fight for this white or with that white. United, the Iroquois are strong. Divided? Who can say that brother could not face brother at lance point?"

  Blue Moccasin's voice rose a notch in power and began to flow with a concern that gave intensity to his word pictures.

  "If the Iroquois fly as one along the warpaths, they will sweep before them the whites who crowd Iroquois lodges." Blue Moccasin scattered the white pebbles surrounding the red stones.

  "Like eagles, the Iroquois will strike. Like buried flies, whites will die."

  As though uncaring, Blue Moccasin added, "White scalps will be countless. White women will die, and their hair will be flourished. White children will be slaughtered like pigs to lie rotting beside their burning cabins. Animals will be destroyed, and crops burned or abandoned.

  "Wildly whites who still live will flee to the protection of larger villages further from Iroquois wrath.

  "Then winter will come. The Iroquois must return to their longhouses to hunt for their families. The whites, too, will seal their lodges against the frost fathers.

  "Peace will claim the land, and many will be the tellings of victories. Trophies of battle will adorn every lodge, but even the easiest victories cost lives, and fighters will have fallen. Their lodges will seem empty.

  "What of the whites during the frozen season? No victories will be theirs to celebrate. Theirs will be wound-licking time with wailing for the dead rising in every village.

  "Sorrowing will be the whites. Angry will be the whites. Vengeful will be the whites.

  "Each moon, even during the frozen time, the great canoes bring new whites to the shores of the salt sea. Each moon more whites will land than there are fighters in all of the Iroquois Confederacy. When the corn again starts from the ground, where one white stood, there will then be two whites."

  Blue Moccasin again surrounded the six red stones with white bits-this time far thicker. "Yet, the noble Iroquois, who won every battle will be fewer."

  Blue Moccasin shook his head. "War is not fair."

  "When corn again grows to the height it now stands, the whites will come against the enemy that they have learned to hate and fear. Their wish will be to kill those who scalped other whites.

  "These whites will not be simple farmers. These will be uniformed soldiers organized into armies. Their guns will be countless, and they will never withdraw.

  "Bravely, with hearts of oak and blades bright with blood, the warriors of the Iroquois will strike the edges and rumps of the white companies. Whites will die in numbers, one here, a few there, more over here." Blue's moccasins scratched at the white pebbles, but the earth was becoming saturated with white, and the disturbance barely showed.

  "The white columns will stagger and slow, but they will plod ahead, even as our warriors bleed them.

  "Then, the whites will reach the first Iroquois villages and fields. Do we face them in lines and fight in open battle? Few would counsel such fighting, for many warriors would die, and we have none to replace them.

  "Whites, too, would die, but more whites would come, and more, and more"-Blue dribbled white pebbles closer to the red stones-"and ever more.

  "Like vast droves of hogs the white armies will wallow in Iroquois fields. Every cornstalk will be burned, every squash flattened. Every lodge will burn, every house will be torn apart and torched. Yet, fewer will number the warriors to protect the fields and homes of our people."

  Blue Moccasin had shifted easily from 'would be' to 'will,' but it went unnoticed. Too trapped with the terrible images were the Iroquois.

  "Onward will stagger the rebel whites. English soldiers will be few, but they will fight bravely beside the Iroquois. Yet, one by one, the villages will fall. Those who do not flee will die.

  "Remember that it is a white Hamilton in Detroit who buys scalps, but it is the Iroquois who sell them as they would beaver or marten. Other whites will begin trading in Iroquois scalps. Why would they not?

  "Where will it stop? At the gates of Fort Niagara? Even to Detroit? How many warriors will remain after fighting to the death to save the people, the lodges, and the harvest for winter?

  "Will Onondaga still stand? Will the sacred fire still burn, or will it be kicked to ashes by uncaring white boots?"

  Blue Moccasin barely paused to allow the images to swirl in the minds of his listeners. He seized his lightened bowl of stones as his words rushed ahead.

  "Again, the winter will come. Where we now gather, there will be only ashes. Tioga, Esther's Town, Qquaga, Unadilla, Catherine's town will be but memories. The Iroquois will beg for food and blankets at English gates.

  "Yet, even as The People starve, whites will swarm onto Iroquois lands, for they will be empty lands-and who will be there to stop them?

  "Gone will be the mighty Iroquois, lost forever beneath a flood of white cabin builders."

  Blue Moccasin dumped his bowl of white pebbles, burying the six red stones.

  The speaker stood silent, staring at the white pile as though stricken. The silence of the council blanketed the village.

  As though in disgust, Blue Moccasin hurled his clay pot onto the stones of the council fire. Its shattering startled the assemblage from Blue's dark predictions.

  From the pile of white, the speaker extracted the red stones. He held each aloft, as though truly representing an honored tribe. Powerfully he called their names.

  "Mohawk, Oneida. Onondaga, Cayuga, Seneca, Tuscarora-THIS NEED NOT BE!

  "Force your minds to rule your hearts. Know that the greatest courage will not halt the river. The bravest deed or the mightiest coup cannot slow the sun or change the wind.

  "The whites cannot be destroyed by war. Though we win every battle, the moon will come when a last warrior will face whites more numerous than maggots in a dead horse.

  "In this war, the Iroquois cannot win, but in peace now, while the whites squabble among themselves, the Iroquois can become like a rock in the stream of white passage.

  "Around the Iroquois rock the whites will flow, unable to harm the boulder that is the confederacy.

  "Then, after many seasons turning, the white flow will end. The river will be filled, and the current will fail.

  "Unharmed, the rock of the Iroquois will stand, and these mountains and these valleys will belong forever to The People.

  "There will be the real victory. Long after scalps have rotted and great coup forgotten, the Iroquois will l
ive as they now live, uncaring what whites do or do not do beyond these sacred borders."

  Blue Moccasin strode proudly, completely around the fire circle holding aloft his six red stones. His eyes sought contact with all who dared to look back. Then he came again before the great chiefs and spoke his final words.

  "Heed the words of Blue Moccasin, oh leaders of the Iroquois for they are true words.

  "Remain free of white warring, and use the time wisely. Then, the Iroquois will live.

  "Choose war, and all that we hold dear will become only the dust of memory."

  Blue Moccasin's fingers closed tightly about the six red "stones," and they crushed into powder and sifted silently to the ground.

  Blue Moccasin left the circle, and only silence followed him along the street of Shequaga.

  Chiefs found themselves unable to marshal arguments for or against. Warriors whose spirits hungered for battle suffered unexpected doubts. Fears usually buried and unrecognized swirled in minds unused to lengthy reasoning.

  The Oneida, Red Jacket, was first to find voice. He stood, fists planted on hips, stance defiant.

  Red Jacket said simply, "Blue Moccasin is right." He left the circle as loud argument began.

  +++

  From Shequaga, Blue Moccasin would march to Onondaga. There at the hearth fire of the Iroquois, he would say again-in different words-all that he had just proclaimed.

  But, his argument had been made. The song of Blue Moccasin had been heard. A dozen repetitions were unlikely to do more than had his first.

  As long as he could, Blue would repeat his message. In Philadelphia, trusted clerks would see to James Cummens' businesses. On the Little Buffalo, Quehana would do what he must. Among the Iroquois, Blue Moccasin would preach until the matter was settled.

  It would not be long. It was warm, and the warring season had begun.

  16 Pursuit

  Rob Shatto knew his pace was too swift, but driven by the horrors closing upon his people he was unable to slow. Repeatedly, he eased his stride into an energy saving lope, but without unrelenting concentration he again picked up the pace and found himself hurtling along the trails.

  The first horse had lasted almost to Tioga. He had driven the animal until its strength fell below his own. When he could run more swiftly than the horse could manage, he released the lathered mount and bounded the remaining miles to the Iroquois southern gate.

  A Tioga horse had galloped him to Esther's Town. There he had commandeered one of Queen Esther's best animals and flogged it down the Susquehanna path and onto the miseries of the Towanda trail.

  Rob barely noted the first and easy Towanda miles. Even the many tree paintings that had intrigued him on their trip north meant nothing. Weariness already dragged him like a shroud, and he was barely into his journey. Rob tried to doze as the horse clomped along the widened path.

  Later, the trail roughened, and the horse made such poor progress that Rob abandoned it and again took up his run. The horse would retrace its steps and, if travelers encountered it en route, the mount would be taken in tow. Unless a panther or a bear happened on the horse, the animal would return to familiar pastures.

  At Esther's Town, Rob had bolted stew from a lodge's pot. Otherwise, he chewed pemmican from his pouch and gulped water when it crossed his path.

  The long rifle unbalanced his running, and he considered abandoning it. Once, when Shawnee had taken Becky and fled north, Rob had run them down without his rifle. He had killed four with pistol and tomahawk. One had escaped wounded and vengeful.

  How long ago that had been. Then, a youth's tireless vigor had driven him. Now, the miles were many times greater. He was stronger and more powerful all over, but the spring of lithe muscle was only a memory. When he finally wore down, he recovered far more slowly, and there was no question that churning through bogs between laborious uphill and downward plunges was chewing at his reserves. Over centuries, Indian paths worked out the least troublesome routes, but within the Endless Hills there were no easy ways.

  To cover great distances required careful balancing of speed and endurance, but he had Seneca killers to overtake, warriors skilled in the same fast traveling. Without recourse, Rob fed his reserves into his run.

  He kept his rifle, shifting it hand-to-hand as a side tired. If he managed to reach the war party before they struck the Little Buffalo, he would not have opportunity for clever ambushes. The rifle, with its decent range, could be needed.

  At times, Rob rested. He lay on his back, his feet elevated, willing blood to flow back from legs and arms. He allowed himself to doze for short periods, half-hours he judged them, before forcing himself erect and back into the smooth-strided lope that ate miles with metronomic regularity.

  Twice he met Indian families on the move. Neither reported a war party. No one had seen a warrior with hair roached ear to ear. Quinaday could have chosen the Wyalusing path to the east. It was longer but gentler. A trail to the west of Rob's path followed Lycoming Creek. It too could have been the war party's route. The worst possibility was that Quinaday was long past the Towanda trail and perhaps traveling as swiftly as Rob.

  The distance runner develops small methods to help the miles unwind. On flat surfaces, Rob huffed a tuneless beat that blended breathing to foot strike. Uphill, he shortened stride and leaned into the trail. Downhill, running was easier in small doses, but rapidly tired muscles unused to holding back. Downhill was also dangerous. Body weight landed harder at each step and ankles could turn without warning. A sprain could end it all. Rob's downhill pace was cautious. If he fell, he allowed his body to roll with the momentum, protecting what he could against hard blows.

  He did fall at times. Vines tripped and stones rolled. The forest floor was often spongy, and solid appearing footing could turn treacherous.

  Indian message carriers, like Blue Moccasin, allowed their minds to drift for long intervals. They practiced speeches and reviewed events of importance.

  Rob Shatto practiced similar escapes. Mile upon mile he recalled times of his youth. In his memory he ran again with Shikee, Shikee of the panther scars, gone so long now to the Shining Mountains of the west. In his mind, Rob rebuilt his great home and redesigned the still that even now made whiskey along the Little Buffalo. He could not long dwell on his people and their danger. The images destroyed his pace.

  Rob had weighed the attacks Quinaday might employ at the Little Buffalo. Surely, Quinaday would scout, and Quehana would draw closer. Quinaday might wait through a night until doors opened and occupants went about their chores. Quehana would race on through the dark. Perhaps visitors would be at the Little Buffalo.

  If Jack Elan were about, Rob's people would have a chance. Deathgiver, Elan's double-barreled black rifle, would crack twice and two warriors would die. One might be Quinaday. His death should break the attack.

  The supposing solved nothing. Rob's task was to get there. He hoped to pass the war party, perhaps during a night when the Seneca would be camped well off the trail. If not, he might arrive before fighting began, or even as it occurred. After that would be too late. He would take Quinaday's trail, but . . .

  One horse waited ahead of him. The settler Hornsock's animal was only a draft horse, but it would trot Rob valuable miles, and Rob meant to have him. He would pay the settler twice the mount's value, and Hornsock would have the horse back when it wandered home, perhaps the next day.

  It was night, and Rob struggled to keep above a walk. At times, his vision blurred, and he regularly lost the path, taking precious moments to relocate it. There was a dangerous quiver in his legs, and his grip on the longrifle threatened to fail.

  Shickellamy's old town was near. Hornsock's clearing was marked in his mind as more than two thirds of the distance to the Little Buffalo.

  Beyond the German's, the Susquehanna path was wide and smooth. He could make good time. He would get the horse, but he must also sleep a few hours. Without rest, the final sixty or more miles would be too much.
At Hornsock's he would sleep-and eat.

  How far to the settler's cabin? A few miles, Rob supposed. He might be there by dawn. He would sleep with the Hornsocks to waken him. Before the sun rose too high, he would be mounted and again moving swiftly. Rob staggered badly on a slippery stone. He wiped sweat from his eyes and forced his legs to function.

  +++

  The warrior, Quinaday, was poor company. Quinaday talked to himself in unknown tongues, but otherwise spoke little. It was exciting to know of Quinaday's murderous reputation and to be chosen for this war trail, but living closely with the killer was not as stimulating. Quinaday's eyes glared too brightly, and he too often fingered his tomahawk-as though he was about to use it.

  As leader, Quinaday set the war party's pace and direction. Experienced by many land journeys, Quinaday did not hurry. He would arrive at the Little Buffalo, and he would kill all that lived there. But, at this time, Quinaday's thoughts were on earlier times and a nearby cabin.

  In his youth, the lodge of Quinaday's mother had stood close by the Susquehanna. The father had hunted the game rich lands and fished the broad and shallow river. Quinaday could remember a village, but in his thoughts only the lodge was clear.

  Chiefs of tribes traded the village site for gifts, and whites came to order the Indians away. There had been little violence, although a white who stunk of sweat and rum had kicked viciously at the boy, Quinaday, as though he were a camp dog. The few remaining lodges had packed and drifted north. Most reached Tioga and lived again within the protection of the Iroquois League.

  The family of Quinaday did not gain that safety. Only days after the whites had driven them forth, his lodge became ill. One by one his family shriveled and died with a white's burning sickness. Only Quinaday was left to bury them.

  Untouched by the fever, the boy scratched a shallow grave and laid his people within it. During the covering, the soul of Quinaday shrunk as dry as the husks he buried.